left hand shakes, pen strokes filling an empty void
even owls have flocked to slumber

to what honor does one owe
to know the nighttime?

tea bags stain leftover mugs
the morning dew has not yet made rounds

what color do I paint the sky?
the morning star, that has not returned, serves another kind

the stars dictate, “this is who you are.”
in wild, irregular dances they mock the mortal

yet as the candle burns, new shapes take form
I will not serve those who write my fate in ancient codes.

even in the darkest introspection can one see in the mirror.
prophetic stories, yet I am no character.

I am my own hero.

in the darkest of the night, while the morning star is the farthest,
still comes back ‘round again.